Still Life

He pours my coffee.

As his eyes look down

past his tight nose he lifts his chin.

The subtle squint of concentration painted

onto his cheek bones— oh

he reminds me there is still life

waiting to pour into coffee shops

and buzz between my heart beats

so fast the refills begin to spill over the brim and no

amount of free napkins could wipe away all

the oils from his canvas if I emptied every sugar packet

into an endless flood of half and half all that combined could not obscure

his reds and blues and chin lift cheek bone curves oh his attention to detail no

amount of me writing this poem could make it possible or even worth

while to express my hopeless desire— no

he is just another painting

I cannot jump into.

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